


Next Time I Fall

by AmberDiceless



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Podfic Welcome, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19443157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberDiceless/pseuds/AmberDiceless
Summary: Crowley has nightmares, and Aziraphale learns something new.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone and everything mentioned herein is the property of Gaiman & Pratchett, or of a Much Higher Authority.
> 
> Considering what a major event the Fall was to pretty much everybody in the GO universe, I've seen surprisingly little written about it. This story (or pair of stories) is dedicated to the wonderful folks at the neutral_omens Livejournal community, without whose encouragement it would still be private-locked in my own account.

It was, of course, a bit of poetic license on Crowley's part to claim that he had _sauntered vaguely downward_ \--that, and a polite fiction that he and Aziraphale maintained by unspoken agreement. The angel got so uncomfortable when the whole topic of Falling came up that he would invariably leap at any opportunity to change the subject. This was fine by Crowley, who, though he'd had millennia to come to terms with it, would (all things being equal) just as soon talk about something else.

In reality, his Fall--though not so horrific as those of some of his truly corrupt brethren, who had gone down in an impressive display of flaming wings, cursing the Name all the way to the bottom--had nonetheless been exactly that: a long, terrifying, uncontrolled tumble from the realms of Light into a place of unspeakable Darkness.

Humans 1 were known to say in jest that falling wasn't so bad, that it was the sudden stop at the end that really got you.

They didn't know the half of it.

Had Crowley been so inclined, he could have explained to Aziraphale exactly why Evil had a reputation for perpetual insomnia. As much as he had come to enjoy sleeping in later centuries, it had taken him a very long time to get to the point that he could make it through a full night undisturbed.

His subconscious, or whatever a demon had that passed for one, had at first taken great delight in serving up cruelly vivid memories of his plummet from grace, so fiercely repressed while awake. It made no difference whether he was tired or drunk or sharing a bed; it was guaranteed that sometime before dawn, he'd find himself bolt upright, drenched with sweat, his throat raw and torn from the kind of scream that human vocal cords just weren't designed to produce. Usually he'd avoid going anywhere near a bedroom for weeks or months afterward, until the remembered terror had subsided and the lingering empty ache in his gut followed suit. It was at these times that he would feel compelled to seek out Aziraphale and try to pick a fight. Beating the daylights out of a decidedly un-Fallen angel was the best therapy imaginable, or so it seemed at the time 2.

But Crowley was nothing if not persistent 3, and it irritated him no end to see legions of mortals (whose lives after all were no picnic either) wandering casually night after night into the realm of dreams where he was, truth be told, afraid to follow. After a while he began to view it as a personal affront.

To Fall was one thing, he reflected in one of those rare moments when he could bring himself to consider the matter objectively (and sober), but to have it replayed every time one shut one's eyes in glorious Technicolor or THX, or whatever was considered cutting-edge nowadays 4\--now _that_ was cruel and unusual punishment.

It became a challenge he set himself, and in time almost an obsession. Armed with vast quantities of alcohol and other mind-altering substances, Crowley would prepare himself for sleep with all the grim determination of a general marching forth into battle. Unfortunately it was difficult to remain grimly determined about much of anything when one was high as a proverbial kite, and drugs in general turned out to be counterproductive to a restful night's sleep, to say nothing of the mornings that followed. The dreams persisted (though admittedly, Hell had never been so colorful.)

He tried wearing himself (and a number of other people) out with sex; that was pleasant enough, but it usually ended with his partner(s) fleeing in the middle of the night, frightened off by his sudden, violent awakenings. He tried inciting wars, ruthlessly smiting the enemy _du jour_ alongside whatever thugs happened to be convenient at the time, until he toppled over from sheer exhaustion; all _that_ accomplished was to call forth particularly vivid images of bloody Michael and his bloody Sword. (And won him a commendation, which, far from making Crowley happy, merely served to remind him of the very things he was trying so hard to avoid thinking about.)

He tracked down several witches and shamans, hoping one of them might have a spell or charm that would help; but most of them turned out to be frauds, and as for the few who weren't, their magic just wasn't effective on demons. He managed to get one of them burnt at the stake by accident 5, and for a while she featured rather prominently in a variation on his nightly private horror show, but the damned soul of a mere human just couldn't take center stage for long. Soon it was back to the falling, endlessly, hopelessly, and the crash landing that (if he was lucky) would jolt him awake before he got to the worst part.

He'd have tried psychotherapy or hypnosis, but somewhat to his frustration, they did not yet exist.

Crowley was just about ready to admit defeat and resign himself to spending the rest of his Earthly existence sleepless (which was a shame really, since he'd just recently discovered the decadent pleasure of satin sheets,) when his path happened to cross Aziraphale's for the first time in several decades 6.

A few cautious inquiries revealed that Heaven was alarmed over the epidemic of drug and alcohol abuse, rampant fornication, violence and witchcraft that had swept through the region of late, so the angel was planning to stick around for some time. Crowley wasn't half as annoyed by this news as he pretended to be; Aziraphale was always entertaining, and really not half bad company, once you learned to tune out the endless stream of absentminded, not-quite-as-holy-as-he-liked-to-think chatter.

Only much later did Crowley make the connection between the angel's company, and the gradual tapering off of his nightmares that began about the same time. At the time he credited his own efforts, and promptly redoubled them, much to the ruffling of Aziraphale's feathers.

It took several more centuries, and there were setbacks, but eventually it occurred to Crowley one day that he hadn't suffered a true night terror in _months_. He was so elated that he went straight to bed and neglected to get up for about a hundred years.

After that, sleeping became just another thing that Crowley did, more or less; one more sinful pleasure of the flesh among the many that he so enjoyed indulging. But it remained his favorite 7, precisely because it had come so hard for such a long time.

\---

It was a few months post-non-Apocalypse that Crowley, idly turning the pages of an old book on dream interpretation, glanced across the book shop at Aziraphale. Catching the angel in profile, framed by a brightly lit window that illuminated his rather ordinary blond hair like burnished gold-- _instant halo_ , the demon thought bemusedly--he experienced a moment of extraordinary clarity, and abruptly _understood_.

And that revelation was but the first in a cascading series that left him breathless, and suddenly nervous, and feeling like the biggest idiot in the history of, well, History.

As though sensing his attention, Aziraphale turned and smiled. And Crowley, greatly daring, did something he'd seldom allowed himself to do in six thousand years' acquaintance: he looked directly into those clear, ageless blue eyes, really _looked_ at the angel as though he were something new, and not just a familiar part of the scenery.

And in the warmth of that serene, sometimes infuriating gaze, he saw reflected back something beautiful and precious--not merely a part of God's creation, but cherished fiercely for its own sake, unique and irreplaceable. Tarnished, yes, and a bit dinged up about the edges, but perhaps valued all the more for that.

Strangely humbled, and more than a little terrified, Crowley blessed under his breath. For one stunned moment, he'd felt almost as though he stood in the Presence once again. With that thought came the inevitable flashback to his final moments in Heaven; to being judged and found wanting, cast down in agony and despair. The old sense of vertigo seized hold, set the world spinning out of control, and in the accompanying rush of panic he almost bolted for the door.

Almost.

Only one thing stopped him, held him rooted to the spot as Aziraphale put down his teacup and walked toward him, puzzled and mildly concerned.

And that was the possibility that if he should fall again, this time, there just might be someone there to catch him.

\---

He came awake suddenly, more confused than alarmed, to the sound of his name spoken drowsily, and a hand laid warm and reassuring on his back.

The dreams had never really gone away, not entirely; and they probably never would. But they were rare now, and they no longer held the power to terrify him.

The worst part of Falling hadn't been the sickening plummet or the awful shattering impact, or even the shock of discovering Hell's existence. No, what had been truly devastating was the sense of absolute isolation; the great gaping emptiness where the Presence had been, and the realization that his fellow Fallen, those he had called his friends, were too wrapped up in their own rage and misery and tattered pride to ask or offer any comfort.

Crowley _knew_ that no one had been there to break his Fall, soothe his hurts, mend his battered wings, or shield him from the Fire. It was absurd, completely antithetical to Hell's mission statement. Love had no place there; that was the whole idea.

Fortunately, dreams were not required to make sense.

Accustomed now to these occasional disturbances, Aziraphale slid an arm around his waist. "Nightmare?" he murmured sleepily as Crowley turned on his side, letting the angel spoon up snugly behind him.

"Just a small one," he said quietly. The images were fading already, scattering before the solid reality of warm skin and breath at his back, and a slow steady heartbeat that gradually coaxed his own racing pulse back to normal. "'m all right. Sorry if I woke you."

Aziraphale murmured something soft and nonsensical, kissed Crowley's shoulder, and went back to sleep. He had, Crowley was quite certain, never had a nightmare in his entire existence 8. Granted he hadn't slept nearly as much either, but nonetheless, it just didn't seem fair that such a slothful activity should come so effortlessly to the angel, of all people.

Crowley sighed and scooted back a bit, fitting them together as closely as possible, and told himself firmly not to be an idiot. It was about two in the morning and he was safe in his own bed, wrapped up warm in his angel; he could shut his eyes and sleep without fear, just as any mortal might do.

It wasn't Paradise, he thought as he tugged the blankets to his chin and drifted off; but it would do.

\---

(1) That is to say, those humans who were so lacking in good taste as to make jokes about falls from lethal heights. Crowley enjoyed a good joke as much as the next demon (and more than most), but where this particular point was concerned, he possessed no sense of humor at all. More than one hapless comedian had found himself inexplicably transported to the top of a very tall skyscraper, to find a note in his pocket that read _Watch that first step, it's murder._

(2) That it might have been Aziraphale's mere presence that made him feel better didn't occur to him until long afterward.

(3) Or, as a certain acquaintance might gently correct, _stubborn._

(4) Neither Technicolor nor THX would, in fact, be invented for a number of centuries at the time that this inner dialogue took place, but Crowley prided himself on being well ahead of upcoming technological trends.

(5) No, it wasn't Agnes, nor even one of her colleagues. She was, however, an actual witch, and probably would have been thrilled to learn that she'd been trafficking with a genuine demon. Though most likely she'd have died cursing his name anyway. Fickle woman.

(6) This would be sometime before the Arrangement was formalized, but sometime after Crowley and Aziraphale discovered, to their mutual astonishment, that they _could_ still hold a civil conversation without the ground opening up and swallowing them both, and stopped habitually trying to kill each other.

(7) With the arguable exception of drinking. Though a case could also have been made for a combination of the two, if only it hadn't been for the hangovers.

(8) He was half right, as will be seen in Part II. Although there had been a few rather intense dreams that, prior to the current incarnation of the Arrangement, Aziraphale might have _called_ nightmares. He knew better now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has nightmares, and Aziraphale learns something new.

One of the interesting things about being an earth-bound angel was that, even after thousands of years, Aziraphale occasionally discovered things he hadn't known he could do.

Of course, being the only angel in history to spend significant amounts of time in human form, rubbing elbows with a likewise humanformed demon, probably had a great deal to do with it. It wasn't as though he could pick up a book on the subject. Though there _were_ occasions when he dearly wished for a copy of _What to Expect From Your Eternal Adversary_ , or something of the sort.

Had there been such a book, one can only imagine the sorts of chapter titles it might contain. _Your Wings: Their Six Most Vulnerable Points and How To Avoid Exposing Them. Demonic Mind Games: Making Him Play by_ Your _Rules. Nineteen Guilt-Free Ways to Get Him Out of Your Way. The Politics of Hell; or, Why It Probably Isn't The Demon's Fault. Really._ 1

Somehow, though, Aziraphale suspected that even if such a volume did exist, his latest discovery would be a little beyond its scope.

He hadn't _meant_ to do it. He hadn't even known it was possible, and if he had, he would never have dreamed (no pun intended) of invading Crowley's privacy in such an outrageous fashion. Work-related snooping was one thing, but this was a deeply personal matter. There were some things that one simply didn't pry into, not even (or perhaps especially) with an old friend who was, technically speaking, the Enemy.

They'd been fighting, as they so often did, until one of them (Aziraphale couldn't remember which one, and it hardly mattered) had finally paused for a breather and asked what exactly they were fighting _about_. When neither could come up with a satisfactory answer, Crowley had said very sensibly, "Right. Sod this for a lark; let's go get plastered." And so they had.

Somewhere in the course of a long and pleasantly blurry evening, Crowley--who had got thoroughly sodden on a particularly excellent lager indigenous to the region, and regaled Aziraphale with several spirited, off-key and extremely tasteless pub songs, which fact the angel was now saving up as blackmail material for some future date--had set his mug on the table with a loud _thud_ , announced that he was knackered, and promptly passed out where he sat.

This was not so unusual, and Aziraphale, after verifying that his companion was still breathing, had thoughtfully shoved aside a few empty glasses and ashtrays and arranged Crowley with his head pillowed in his crossed arms on the table. He had _meant_ to get the poor dear up to a room to sleep it off in privacy, really he had; but the pub's common room was so quiet and homey, the beer really was quite superior, and it seemed such a long trip up the stairs...

Things had got progressively blurrier from that point, and Aziraphale still wasn't quite sure how he had misjudged his own capacity so badly. You'd think after nearly six millennia, he ought to know how much alcohol his body could reasonably process in a given span of time (or at least have remembered that Crowley nearly always managed to drink him under the table, and not the other way around.) But whatever the case, at some point the details of the cozy little pub had gone completely out of focus. Shortly thereafter consciousness gave it all up as a bad job, and fled.

\---

He hung suspended in an unutterably dark place, caught between a sense of bone-chilling cold that flowed from somewhere above him, and a fearsome heat radiating from below. His wings were out, but Aziraphale felt that there was no air around him; it was only his own Will that supported him in the vacuum.

_What a terrible place_ , he thought uneasily, reaching out instinctively toward the Presence that never left him. It was there, as always, warm and reassuring at the edges of his awareness, though strangely muted. It came to him then that he was very far away from any of the places he thought of as home; he wondered dismally how he'd got here, and how he was supposed to get back.

There was an oppressive sense of waiting, though he didn't know what he was waiting for, or what he was supposed to do when it happened. A small nagging voice at the back of his mind told him that he really ought to know, but refused to offer up any helpful suggestions. _Bugger off then, if you won't make yourself useful,_ he told it sharply, then frowned; the thought hadn't been like him; his inner dialogues were usually very civil.

Somewhere far above, he caught sight of a glimmer, a tiny pinpoint of sparkling white light. It was quite lovely, and shone out like the brightest star against the murky blackness. _A star...is that it? Am I in deep space? But then shouldn't there be more stars? How very odd this is._

Aziraphale watched as the light gradually swelled, brightening as though it were growing stronger, or closer; and presently, as though in answer to his question, other lights winked into existence around it--a whole swarm of them, like some unfamiliar constellation that grew and changed as he watched. He couldn't make out a pattern, but an ominous sense of familiarity had begun to creep over him.

_I've see this before. I know I have, but not like this. It was different before..._

The first star-thing, the brightest one, had continued to swell, and was now flickering in distinctly un-star like fashion. Aziraphale squinted up at it, blinking several times, and the whole puzzling tableau seemed to shift just a little, like one of those clever eye-puzzles the humans sold at kiosks in shopping centers. The "constellation", he realized, was really something more akin to a meteor shower, with dozens (no, hundreds) of brightly illuminated objects hurtling toward him at what must be a phenomenal rate of speed.

It occurred to him that he perhaps ought to get out of the way; but though a feeling of dread was growing on him as he watched, it wasn't fear for his personal safety. Somehow, he knew that _he_ was perfectly safe. And that sense of waiting had grown apace, telling him in no uncertain terms that he needed to stay where he was, that Whatever It Was was about to happen and that if he wasn't right here when it did, something even more dreadful would follow.

So he watched and waited, as patiently as possible; and in time the first, bright object resolved itself into a tumbling human shape. And it was on fire. Argent flame danced with horrible splendour along its graceful, wide-flung, perfectly-formed limbs--all six of them.

And with a shock of purest unbelieving horror, Aziraphale _knew_.

_No. This can't be. It can't!_ he protested silently to no one. _There's been no trouble in Heaven, not since before the Beginning. Surely they would have sent word if another Rebellion was brewing? I can't be so far out of the loop they'd simply forget to mention such a thing?_

On a moment's reflection, he decided that he could be, and they very well might. But now the lead figure (and oh, there were so many following; countless thousands now blanketing the sky above with a deceptively beautiful radiance) was close enough that Aziraphale's sharp eyes could pick out the features, twisted with agony and rage, but still breathtaking for all that. One good look was enough to confirm it; once you'd witnessed the glory of the Morningstar, you didn't forget. And now the screams of the First Fallen came faintly to his ears, or rather to his mind, as there was no medium to carry sound in this place that was not really a place.

The Fall had been in some sense a metaphor; but when dealing with incorporeal beings, the boundaries between metaphor and reality blurred until they became meaningless. The distance between Heaven and Hell was slimmer than a hair's breadth, and wide as all the infinite stretches of time and space, depending on how you looked at it, or at what vantage point you stood.

_Well, this just doesn't make sense,_ Aziraphale told himself somewhat crossly as he watched Lucifer hurtle past him, oblivious to his presence. _The Faithless have already gone down, long since; they can't Fall twice! Unless I've somehow been sent back in time? But I wasn't down here at the halfway point; I was watching from Up Above._ He wondered momentarily if his much-younger self was up there somewhere, forcing himself to witness the dreadful business until he couldn't take it anymore, and then turning away in shame and deep sorrow. The thought made his head hurt.

_The least I could have done was stand witness to the whole thing,_ he thought guiltily, as one doomed angel after another spiraled past, wings askew, trailing flame. The emptiness was filled with their lamentations, voices that had woven the most intricate harmonies in glorious praise of their Creator now no more than animalistic shrieks. _Poor sods. Many of them were just asking for it, of course, they really should have seen it coming. Served them right. But I'll wager some didn't even intend--_

_\--!_

_CROWLEY!_

Aziraphale actually swore, and kicked himself mentally. It was so easy to forget, dealing with Crowley day to day, that he was a _demon_ , and that meant that he had _Fallen_ , for all his airy claims of "sauntering," and that meant he was _here!_

Somewhere. One small point of light amid countless legions of the lost.

Uncertain what to do, Aziraphale wasted a few precious seconds dithering. If this was truly the Fall--and it certainly felt real; wrenchingly, heartbreakingly so--then he had no business interfering. All of these angels had disobeyed, and as he had observed long ago, _If you do Wrong when you're told to do Right, you deserve to be punished._ This was their just reward, ineffably harsh though it seemed to him at the moment. It wouldn't do to single one out for special treatment because he, Aziraphale, happened to know him, even if he could _find_ him in all this chaos.

But...Crowley. Crowley who'd gone green standing at the top of a skyscraper in a stiff breeze, who had been known to surreptitiously rescue aeroplanes whose engines had failed, and whom Aziraphale had personally seen stop a falling child in mid-air when she'd toppled from a fourth-story window. He couldn't imagine how terrified his friend must be, tumbling down in the midst of all this; it hurt just to think of it.

And it was no good trying to pretend he couldn't find him if he wanted to. The simple thought was enough to screen out the cacophonous background noise, bringing to the fore a particular, very familiar 'voice', raised in a wail of unspeakable terror that brought Aziraphale's heart to his throat.

Well, Aziraphale reasoned...well, after all, he must have been brought here for a _reason,_ mustn't he? Even the most Ineffable of Plans wouldn't catapult an angel back to the Fall for _no reason._ And if no one was going to offer him any instructions, then he could assume that one reason was as good as another.

There was something not quite right about that logic, but Aziraphale took it as good enough. Casting about with senses unknown in the mortal world, he made his way upward by an effort of will, passing by former friends and comrades whose faces he dimly remembered, as well as many who were unfamiliar. Here and there a name came to him, and he was forced to look away, once again shamed at his own weakness. Though it was enough to bring any angel to tears, he thought sadly; so much light and love, thrown away for the sake of pride, and for the empty promises of the greatest waste of all.

The void was warm now, almost stifling with the heat of so much holy fire. Not all the Fallen were burning, he saw now, though all had been damaged to some extent by the blast that had literally knocked them out of Heaven. A few struggled to right themselves, and fell more slowly than their fellows, many of whom had simply gone limp with despair.

Predictably, he found Crowley when the latter crashed into him from above, tangling their wings, and for one panicky moment almost dragging Aziraphale down with him.

"Crowley!" the angel gasped, or tried to, then swore again and switched to a different mode of communication as he grappled his friend, struggling to slow his descent. At least he wasn't on fire. _Crowley, it's me. Spread your wings, there's a dear chap, I can't keep us both up..._

The response from Crowley was wordless, bewildered and suffused with fear, and with a sense of bottomless despair that made Aziraphale want to weep. He wasn't even sure if Crowley recognized him; he hung motionless in the angel's awkward embrace, neither resisting nor trying to help.

_I know, my dear, I understand, but you must try to pull yourself together, or we'll both crash!_ he sent frantically. Dear Heaven, but Crowley was _heavy_ , weighted down by his own hopelessness and by the burden of the Creator's judgment. The heat was intensifying, and a faint red glow was visible far beneath them. Aziraphale tried not to think where they were headed. He'd see it soon enough.

It was clear he couldn't break Crowley's Fall, but he went on trying anyway, throwing every iota of Will he could muster into slowing them down, at least. All the while he went on yammering at his friend, encouraging, cajoling and finally threatening him, though he knew that last was futile; nothing he could do to Crowley was worse than what had already happened. But to his surprise, it worked. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of it, or maybe Crowley really did love his Bentley enough that the threat of broken headlights and scratched paint was enough to snap him out of it; whichever, he finally rallied enough to snarl at Aziraphale and deploy his wings, though it was a half-hearted effort at best.

It still wasn't enough; nothing in all Creation could have stopped their descent. But with their combined efforts, when they finally hit bottom, it was merely with the force of a plummeting 747, rather than a full-scale nuclear detonation.

Crowley took the brunt of the impact, bones snapping and flesh tearing on the sharp volcanic rock that seemed to be all that existed here, apart from boiling lava.

To Aziraphale's surprise, he didn't seem to be hurt at all, though the crash landing had shaken him badly.

He coughed, peering around with eyes that stung and watered from the brimstone. Hell was every bit as horrible as he'd imagined it to be, and then some. The blasted, barren landscape, lit only by the glow of the fiery pits and blanketed with sulfuric smoke and ash, would have been bad enough; but the suffering of the Fallen all around him made it seem a thousand times worse. Scorched and broken bodies littered the ground as far as the eye could see, and where here or there one had landed intact enough to get up and move around, fights had already begun to break out.

_Your fault, his fault, their fault,_ he heard them shouting, and sighed as he set about tending Crowley's wounds. His healing power had never worked very well on the demon, and he wasn't sure whether it would work here at all; but he found he was able to manifest bandages and such with no trouble, and to bring the surrounding area down to a more or less tolerable temperature. And--he felt a small rush of anxiety and double checked, just to be sure--he could still feel the Presence, even more muted than before, but most definitely there. Which suggested that all was not as it seemed, convincing though it was. Hell, by definition, meant the complete absence of the divine. He should have combusted the moment he touched down, in fact.

One thing was certain, though; Crowley was real. His aura was strong and unmistakable, and he opened his eyes to regard Aziraphale with the slightly glazed calm of someone in deep shock. Aziraphale smiled at him, noting with a small pang that his eyes were a soft grey, not the slit-pupilled serpent's eyes he was accustomed to.

"...angel?" Crowley frowned confusedly, his voice no more than a rough whisper. "You're not s'posed to be here..."

"Just be still, now," Aziraphale said, as reassuringly as he could manage under the circumstances. "I really don't know why I'm here, dear boy, but here I am, all the same. Don't you worry yourself about it."

He watched, his heart sinking further, if that was possible, as the confusion on the impossibly youthful face gave way to apprehension, and then to panic.

"I can't feel Him," the newly-minted demon cried, distraught.

Aziraphale started to say something, though he didn't know what he possibly _could_ say in the face of such a devastating loss, but Crowley didn't give him the chance. He tried to sit up, and screamed as fractured bones buckled under his weight.

"I d-don't understand," he sobbed as Aziraphale rushed to support him. "Why did this happen? I didn't rebel, I don't even know what all the f-fighting was about--"

"Shh, shh," Aziraphale soothed. "I don't know, Crowley. I truly don't. Easy, now..." Having no better answer to give him, he simply held Crowley, mindful of his hurts, rocking him gently back and forth and making small comforting sounds, until the outpouring of grief had run its course.

Aziraphale felt rather lost himself. Not, oddly enough, because he was sitting in the middle of a rapidly escalating turf war in Hell--someone was clearly watching out for him, and he felt certain that when he was finished here, he'd find his way out again.

He simply didn't know what to do with this broken, vulnerable creature, so unlike the irrepressible personality he'd known for so long. Was this what had lain hidden under Crowley's aggressively confident exterior all this time? It scarcely seemed possible. And yet, here he was, huddled against Aziraphale as though he was clinging to a lifeline.

The frenetic burst of energy didn't last long. When Crowley had quieted, wracking sobs tapering off into the occasional painful hiccup, Aziraphale carefully laid him down with a reassuring murmur and went back to work. With care, he wiped the blood from his friend's body and limbs, cataloguing the extensive injuries he found underneath.

One thing at a time. Starting with something relatively simple, he patched up several deep lacerations. The wounds weren't clean, to his dismay; volcanic ash was everywhere, getting into everything and obscuring his vision to boot, and all he could do in the end was cover up the cuts and hope they'd bleed clean.

Then he set and splinted Crowley's shattered right arm and strapped it to his side as best he could.

And after _that_ , unable to put it off any longer, he turned his attention to one of the ravaged wings. What he saw made him cringe in sympathy.

It was bent at an anatomically impossible angle, and had been twisted awkwardly under Crowley's body. _He must have landed on it,_ Aziraphale thought with a shudder, his own back muscles twitching. Now the huge pinion lay limp and tattered, great clumps of feathers torn away or sheared off on the sharp rock. Its mate was in slightly better condition, but that wasn't saying much.

"Oh, dear. I'm afraid this is going to be very painful, no matter how I do this," he murmured, feeling vaguely sick as he tried to picture the state the delicate bones and musculature must be in. He knew enough of angelic anatomy that he thought he _could_ fix even such a grim mess as this, adequately at least; though doing it without resorting to full-blown surgery (which was completely out of the question under these conditions) was a very daunting prospect. If they'd been on Earth, he might just have thrown all caution and dignity to the winds and fetched a veterinarian.

"Best get on with it then," Crowley said distantly, as though it mattered very little to him.

It _was_ painful, and though he was as careful and gentle as possible, it wasn't the last time he had to hurt Crowley in the course of putting him back together. Aziraphale forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, to not listen when his friend moaned or cried out at his touch, and wished futilely that he could get him to a clean quiet room and a comfortable bed.

He caught himself wondering at one point whether the Fall itself wasn't punishment enough; was it really necessary to leave these poor people in such horrifying conditions?

_Ineffable,_ he reminded himself sternly, and tried to put it out of his mind. Of such thoughts were rebellion made, and having seen firsthand now where that led, he was more certain than ever that he wanted no part of it.

The small but irritatingly insistent voice that had been nudging him in that direction for longer than he cared to think--the one that occasionally sounded like Crowley, but more often and more suspiciously like himself--retorted that if ever there was a reason to rebel, this horrible tableau must surely be it. It was all very well and good to say _ineffable_ , sitting in the comfort of his bookshop and reading about Hell in one of his Bibles, but this--

Aziraphale didn't know what to think. The only thing he knew for certain at that moment was that he did not like it when Crowley was hurt.

Scarcely a part of Crowley seemed to have escaped undamaged, though the brutalized wing turned out to be the worst. It would be a very long time before he would fly again, but that was frankly the least of his problems. He'd lost so much blood that a human being would already have been dead (not that a human would have survived the impact,) and he shivered noticeably despite the intense heat.

Aziraphale fretted quietly as he worked. Creatures of angelic stock were far tougher than any human in their true forms, but even they had limits. Though glancing around, Aziraphale didn't think any of the Fallen were actually dead, or perhaps even permanently crippled. Given a few decades, even these terrible wounds Crowley had suffered might eventually heal.

Was that a mercy, he wondered dismally, or simply a way to ensure that they'd remain useful to the Plan?

Aziraphale was peripherally aware that they were being completely ignored by the surrounding demons--that was what they were now, he supposed, though they looked little different than they had before--which was a small blessing; the struggle to carve out territories and establish a pecking order was spreading, even among those Fallen who could barely stand. Those who were too severely damaged to fight were left to lie where they had fallen, sometimes trampled by their healthier brethren. Hell was already working its insidious way upon them, feeding the flames of anger and frustration that had brought them to this pass in the first place.

_And these were Crowley's friends,_ he thought very quietly to himself, _who dragged him into their foolish Rebellion. I wonder, did they leave him to suffer and bleed while they carried on their pointless little war?_ He shook his head, certain of the answer. Thank Somebody that Crowley had landed the Earth assignment early on. What would have become of him if he'd been stuck in Hell all this time didn't bear thinking of.

He was now certain, too, that this was all some sort of illusion, albeit a remarkably sophisticated one. Matters were progressing too quickly, for one thing; surely even among the Fallen, it would take more than an hour or two for the infighting to begin in earnest. And the way the combatants looked past him as though he wasn't there reminded him of a motion picture, or one of those animatronic amusement park exhibits. It was all playing out according to some accelerated master script--all except him and Crowley.

He was beginning to form a suspicion, but if he was right, he'd have to handle this very carefully. And be a good deal more cautious about how much he drank in Crowley's company in the future.

Finishing with the last of his ministrations, he sat down next to his friend and cupped his battered face with one hand, his touch feather-light. "Crowley," he said softly, spreading his wings like a canopy to block out the worst of the horrors around them. "Can you hear me, my dear?"

After a long moment, Crowley's eyes fluttered open, dull with pain and misery. He looked so terribly pale. "'ziraphale," he acknowledged. "Shouldn't be here. 's no place for an angel."

"Yes, I know," Aziraphale said, smiling slightly. He stroked the dark hair tenderly, keeping his voice low and soothing. "But it's no place for you either, dear heart. Not anymore. You paid your penance long ago. Don't you remember?"

Crowley frowned. "I...I don't...what the blazes are you on about?"

Well, that sounded a bit more like the Crowley that Aziraphale knew. "Think carefully. You didn't meet me until long after you Fell, did you? So how can I be here with you now, and in Hell, where I ought to be burnt to a crisp?"

Crowley blinked, and for an instant the gray eyes flickered yellow. "After I..." he said uncertainly. "But. I only just--I _know_ you," he insisted indignantly, as though Aziraphale had denied it.

"Of course you do." Aziraphale sensed a tremor in the fabric of reality around them. _Aha. I thought so._ "Better than anyone, I daresay."

"Something's off, here." Crowley peered through the smoke at the dimly visible, struggling figures around them. "Isn't it? I haven't...this can't have happened twice? Can it?"

The angel shook his head, wondering how many times Crowley had relived this horrible scenario alone, believing it to be true, and how he could bear to sleep at all if this was what awaited him when he shut his eyes. "No one has ever Fallen twice, my dear. It's quite impossible."

"Right. What you said...Blast it, I can't _think_ straight," Crowley said, scowling. "What are we doing here?"

"We were in that nice little pub," the angel went on encouragingly, "drinking far too much of that exquisite lager they serve, you remember? And then you went to sleep, and I think perhaps I did too."

The demon stared at him for a long moment. "Hold on. You're telling me I've been _dreaming?_ "

"I think so, yes." Aziraphale sat back on his heels, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as the monstrous heat and smoke began to evaporate.

Crowley actually laughed at that, incredulous; and then he abruptly pushed himself upright, hissing a little as the motion disturbed his injuries. But the nightmare landscape was beginning to fade away, and it was taking the dreadful wounds with it. (And all of Aziraphale's first aid work--not that he was the least bit sorry to see it go.) His eyes had reverted to their usual serpentine gold.

"Dreaming," he repeated bemusedly. "I'll be buggered. I had no idea I remembered it this well. 2"

He sighed deeply, rubbing irritably at his forehead. The infernal landscape rippled strangely for a moment, and then winked out entirely. They now sat on a featureless plain, uniform gray stretching off in all directions to infinity.

"Well, if this isn't embarrassing," Crowley muttered at last. "Pardon the expression, but what the Hell are you doing in my nightmare, angel?"

Aziraphale shrugged apologetically. "I really don't know. It wasn't intentional, I assure you. I suppose it's one of my abilities, only I've never fallen asleep at the same time that someone so close by was dreaming before."

Crowley sighed again, materializing a pair of sunglasses and slipping them on. "Well. No harm done, I suppose." He paused, and cleared his throat self-consciously, flushing a bit. "Um. I suppose I should, um. Er....for, you know..."

The angel smiled knowingly. "You are very welcome, my dear," he said seriously.

"Yeah, that." Crowley chuckled a little nervously.

Aziraphale hesitated. His natural inclination was to avoid such uncomfortable subjects, but it wasn't as though they could pretend he hadn't seen what he had seen. And it was unlikely he would ever have a better opportunity to hear Crowley's take on it all.

"So that's what it was like," he ventured at last. "I've often tried to imagine, but..."

"...you sort of had to be there. Yeah." Crowley shrugged stiffly. "I got off pretty easy compared to some of the others, really...well, you saw. Nobody had a reason to notice me."

He said it as though that had been a stroke of luck, but Aziraphale thought it was one of the saddest things he'd ever heard.

"I suppose you must have seen it all before. You know, from Above," Crowley added uncomfortably.

"Only the first part." Aziraphale smiled sadly. "And not...well, to be truthful, I couldn't bring myself to watch for very long."

"Probably just as well. I'm sure it wasn't a pretty sight." Crowley studied his clasped hands.

The angel looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then said very softly, "No, it wasn't. It was awful, in every sense of the word. I wept, in fact. A great many of us did."

Crowley looked up in surprise, and Aziraphale added, "It's the only time I can remember that happening, while I was in Heaven. Though I'm told it's happened once or twice since."

"Fancy that," Crowley said, wonderingly. "And He didn't mind?"

"No, not at all." Aziraphale drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them, remembering. "Michael and some of the others were furious, but He told them no, that it was only proper we should mourn the loss of our brethren. Though he maintained that they--well, you--had brought it on yourselves, and that it was a just punishment.

"He seemed rather disconsolate himself, actually," he added. "Though not surprised, of course."

"Of course not." Crowley snorted, shaking his head ruefully. "All part of the Ineffable Plan, right? Would have been nice if he'd dropped _us_ a few hints beforehand. But then I suppose that would have defeated the whole purpose, whatever it was."

He sat in contemplative silence a few moments more, then gave himself a little shake. "Right. Look, it's been fun--or, well, not really--and I don't want to appear an ungracious host, but would you mind terribly...?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Not at all. I've been thinking on how, and I believe I've got it worked out." He stood up, brushing away a few remaining traces of soot. He regarded Crowley thoughtfully for a moment. "Although...would you accept a small gift, before I go?"

"I suppose..." the demon said cautiously, watching him a trifle warily.

Aziraphale leaned over and kissed him softly on the forehead.

Crowley blinked, astonished, as something shifted just slightly inside his head. "What'd you do?" he demanded, scooting back a bit, touching the spot where he'd been kissed as though it pained him, though it had done nothing of the sort.

"Made things a bit easier for us both, I should say." Aziraphale sighed. "If it takes, you won't remember any of this when you wake."

Crowley scowled. "But you will. Hardly fair, d'you think?"

"True enough." Aziraphale spread his hands. "Would you like to remove my memory as well, then? I could scarcely blame you."

Crowley opened his mouth as though to say yes, but then hesitated. Aziraphale would have given quite a bit to know what he was thinking, just then.

"No," he said finally, "one of us should remember, just to make certain it doesn't happen again. But you can bloody well tell me what you're planning next time, angel. Um. Not that there should _be_ a next time." Thoroughly flustered, he made a shooing gesture. "Oh, just bugger off, won't you?"

Aziraphale inclined his head. "As you wish, my dear." And with that, he shut his eyes and focused his attention on his human body, ordering it sternly to stop lazing about and _wake up_.

\---

He came awake to the quiet sounds of a common room slowly winding down for the night, the smell of stale beer, and Crowley muttering groggily to himself across the table.

"Ah, but you gents have remarkable timing," said the barkeep, as the serving girl cleared away their empty tankards. "Last call's come and gone." He grinned, altogether too cheerfully, Aziraphale thought resentfully. "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here! Unless you'd like to rent a room, of course."

Aziraphale shook his head and dropped enough money on the table to cover their tab, and looked at Crowley, who was eyeing the barkeep with the sort of bleary menace that only a drunk demon can pull off convincingly.

"Isn't excessive happiness one of the seven deadly sins?" he inquired acidly as the man strolled off, pocketing the bills.

"Erm, no, actually. But it _should_ be," the angel said decisively. "I'll ask Upstairs to look into it. They're up for revision soon anyway."

"You do that. 's much worse than gluttony. Or sloth," Crowley growled, pushing back from the table and rising slowly to his feet. "Whoa," he added, swaying dangerously for a moment. "Damn fine beer they've got here, though."

"Steady on, there..." Aziraphale got up, not much better off, and reflexively extended a hand.

Crowley waved it away. "Nah, 'm fine. I won't fall. See?" He took a few meandering steps. "Long's the floor stays put..." He glared at it, as though daring it to try something funny.

The angel smiled--a very soft, wistful sort of smile that would have made Crowley wonder if he'd happened to catch it, but he didn't. So _that_ was all right.

_Chapter Seventeen,_ Aziraphale thought as they headed for the door, _What Do Demons Dream Of?_ Well, now he knew.

This particular one, for the next few nights at least, would dream about whatever he liked best. 3

And if he should ever again find himself reliving his Fall...well, dreams were funny things. In them, people would turn up unexpectedly in the strangest places, and do the oddest things.

What Crowley didn't know wouldn't hurt him. But it might, just possibly, soften his landings a bit.

\---

(1) Needless to say, the best person to write such a book would be someone with first-hand experience, so one would have to expect a bit of authorial bias.

(2) This was, of course, a lie.

(3) Oddly enough, Crowley's dreams for the next few nights involved nothing more diabolical than a small pub, an unlimited supply of remarkably good beer, and a certain annoying angel with a book fetish.


End file.
